


Steady Hands

by Insignias



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2012-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:02:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insignias/pseuds/Insignias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trapped in a roomed barred with corroded chains, undead closing in on all sides and an infected bite in his side, there's only one last thing Sherlock will ask of John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steady Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt I can no longer find on the kinkmeme, but it didn't fulfill it exactly anyway. Not Brit-picked or beta'd. I'll get to it someday, I promise! Enjoy!

John holds the gun to his head and his hand is steady.

Sherlock admires this; how even here, with the dull thud of rotting flesh pounding against ever-weakening doors, the jangle of hastily wrapped chains a jarring counterpoint, John can still keep his composure through nauseating, fevered haze. 

“Sherlock,” John’s voice breaks, and he swallows with difficulty. Emotional distress broadcast wide in the line of his jaw and the protective stance as he stands between the detective and the door. Pain hardens his stance, aging and fresh wounds taking their toll on his human body. John is a fine specimen, a testament to the false idea of softening with age, and Sherlock wishes more than anything in that moment to observe him until his death. But that is no longer here nor there.

There is no more time left, after all.

Dark blue eyes dart about the broken room; shattered beakers and bloodstains smearing with old, viscous fluids. Formaldehyde and old urine pungent though well over three weeks old. 

“Sherlock, I can—”

“John.” Sherlock interrupts, calm and even though his coat is tattered and mud-soaked, left side, furthermost seam torn open. The wound to his torso oozes black; his hand presses tighter instinctively though doing so will do nothing for it. Bile rises once more as vertigo threatens, but he bats it away with deft fingers. It is only death’s first words and it has been long in coming.

“Sherlock.” John repeats, and his arm begins to shake; minuscule tremors cataloged on automatic. His hard drive refusing to acknowledge these moments as unimportant. This is John, his John, and his mind needs no more incentive. 

“It will be all right.” He blurts, emphatic but soothing, though his head has begun to feel overstuffed and fuzzed. He attempts a smile, but it dissolves at John’s wince. He struggles to realize why. 

Ah. It had been the Harmless Neighbor one. John has always found that one to be especially detestable, perhaps due to the false cheer it lends his features. Memories have begun to deteriorate.

It would be far more fascinating if he could study this abstractly.

John’s snarl is immediate and his swooping gesture would have tossed his gun if not for the practiced and easy grip. Professional, light, not with this model originally but so often used recently he may have be born to it, “No, Sherlock! It bloody well won’t! You’re asking me to—to—” 

Sherlock makes an abortive motion, the fingers of his right hand shoving into his pocket with more fumbling than he will admit. His hand grasps the gun, smaller than John’s, a .33 instead of the 9mm Nato John’s keep with him since his service, acquired just this last Tuesday during their thrice weekly raid of abandoned structures. A fascinating exercise he had been hoping would continue for quiet some time. 

How contingency plans change.

The gun in his palm is quite heavier than his memory provides; the weakness expressed by relatively lucid first victims has begun to affect his musculature. The infection must have reached his brain stem. It’s always so much more fascinating to experience symptoms firsthand. He wets his lips, but can’t quite seem to swallow.

“John.” He grunts, and tries to raise the gun, an offering and an out. He won’t force John, not for this, “John, I can—if you’d rather—” A step forward and his knees threaten to give out, but John, ever-faithful John, only grabs his middle and collapses with him, his arms clamped tight to keep him safe. Sherlock grunts for the searing flare in his side, but makes no further comment. His head has found itself tucked beneath John’s chin and there is little room for complaint.

“This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, you git,” Rumbles John, his grip shifting to cup his friend’s shoulders one hand awkward, his gun still held tight; voice a thready rasp, “We were supposed to find a boat. Make it off somewhere. Greenland, maybe.”

“Pointless,” Sherlock chides, eyelids gummy, “The infection has been global for more than three months. With airlines as they are,” he pauses, purses his lips to find the proper words, “were, complete infection would have occurred with thirty-eight hours, less in the high-traffic areas. I thought I taught you better.”

John sighs and reaches up to card calloused fingers through Sherlock’s unkempt, curly locks, “Shut up, I was in a moment of whimsy.”

Sherlock coughs, wet and hacking, burrowing his nose into John’s muddy jumper, “Now?” He sneers, pulling back to look at the ex-army doctor in disbelief, but John’s hand firmly cups his skull and he no longer has the strength to fight. 

“Yes now, Sherlock. I’m allowed to have a couple in my life and since it’s going to be over quite soon I thought I might catch up a bit.”

Sherlock feels his brows furrow and his mind seems fit to turn upon him, hazed and faded as it has become. If only the Yard could see them now, but they are all long dead; lost in the very first days, “What do you mean?”

John moves and Sherlock swallows against the feel of the cool weight of a barrel beneath his chin. He shifts from above an Sherlock starts from the press of warm, dry lips to his overheated forehead.

“I’m not leaving you,” the army doctor murmurs and Sherlock can picture the sheepish smile as he settles his head on top of Sherlock’s own, the all-too familiar click strangely benign, “Don’t care if you’d rather otherwise. You’re hopeless on your own, you know that? You can’t even remember the milk.”

“Boring,” Sherlock whispers, breathless, fingers clutching tight, “I’d rather arsenic. Much more of a kick to the morning.”

John lets out a helpless chortle, his chest shaking with his gasps. Sherlock burrows deeper, lips pulled taunt in a genuine smile; one of the few and just for John.

“Ready?” He asks, hand steady and still; Sherlock feels him swallow and clasps his hand over John’s, in reassurance and patch-worked calm.

“Could be dangerous.” He warns, gentle and nearly kind.

“And yet here I am.”

“And here you are.” Sherlock murmurs, soft and marveled, as John index finger clenches on the trigger.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Yes, it is physically possible to do what John does with his gun. He's got a P226 which is a large caliber handgun and will easily cut through both skulls without an difficulty whatsoever.


End file.
